Maryam Karimi didn't strike me as an expert in managing anger. She was in her later fifties with streaks of grey along her temples, but I imagined it was a deliberate part of her well groomed look. In a dark blue skirt suit and heavy pearl necklace, she was foreboding yet softly spoken and gentle mannered. I couldn't imagine her getting angry about anything. Her voice was low and measured, her hands clasped on her lap. No fidgeting, no nerves at being presented with a new 'client.'
I was sweating like a pig.
An over heated, about to be served as bacon, pig.
My mind was every where. On the fact that I still felt drunk, that I had a dog at home and I didn't know what state the loft would be in when I returned, and then there was Maggie. I hadn't a clue whether she was still there, or whet
